The Sin of Omission

I wrote a post last night.

It was long. And thoughtful. And finally too intricate to publish. It came from so deep within my own experience that even I was confused.

It was all about legalism and arrogance and pride. And how people who fall into those traps never, ever know it until they're hauled forcibly from them. And the post was going to try to explain that legalism and pride isn't something that the eye can perceive at first blush; it's not how long you wear your hair or skirt; it's not how many or few arrows the Lord has put in your quiver; it's not a million other little things that people have chosen for or against in their attempt to follow God and witness for Him.

It's the why behind all those things. And for the one right reason (love of Jesus) that there is to adopt and incorporate any given conviction, there are so many more wrong ones (praise of man).
And I believe with all my heart that it is those wrong reasons that dry up the spirit and leave our witness completely, if not temporarily, ineffective. These are the folks who carry such a heavy yoke of their own making that they can't smile, laugh or even see past their own sphere of influence under it's weight. They are the epitome of the old adage, "So heavenly minded that they're of no earthly use." It's sad to watch from any angle: the inside, the outside, and beside.

Right now, I'm seeking the Lord's face about the mystery it is to me to love His law as David exhorts us in the Psalms, while all the time realizing that Jesus came to accomplish something that even His law could not do. I'm peeling back the layers -- well, I'm trying to.

In the meantime, as I meditate on my desire to love Him so deeply that the beauty of His compassion and care would bubble forth from my heart and completely envelope my countenance, for His sake and glory, I came upon this poem by Margaret E. Sangster, and it was a blessing to me...

The Sin of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotton,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you did not send, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way;
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no time nor thought for
With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
Which we poor mortals find --
They come in night and silence,
Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late;
And it isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
Which gives you a bit of a heartache
At the setting of the sun.